


Teeth and Steel

by carvedwhalebones (fuckyeahlucifersupernatural)



Series: The Wolf & The Fox [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Knifeplay, M/M, Slight Woundplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckyeahlucifersupernatural/pseuds/carvedwhalebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's worrisome how much trust they have in the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teeth and Steel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cobbledbitsofbone](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cobbledbitsofbone).



> **Prompt:** Daud/Martin  & knifeplay   
>  Dishonored Blog: carvedwhalebones 

“It’s been a month, Daud. What makes you think I still want you?” 

It’s been two months since Teague ascended as a questionable Overseer to achieving one of the highest political offices in Gristol. He still wore his Overseer uniform during the first month. Still walked amongst the Overseers, laying his hands on their heads and sharing wisdom amongst the shaken. Now Teague wears the bloody jacket of his position, fully transitioning into his role as High Overseer and looking practically regal behind his new desk. The armchair he sits upon is of a dark, nearly pitch black hue and Teague is a blood stain against it. 

The stain gives a trying sound. Teague sounds bored. Daud wonders if Teague has missed him the past month. He’s been absent due to Delilah and dealing with her coven, but he won’t divulge the High Overseer on such information. He’ll let him think whatever he wishes as to why he has broken their routine nor corresponded with him.

“Have you seen me actively seeking you out?” Daud calmly slings back. He has missed Teague, the priest who is more fox than man. He misses the way he lets smoke curl out of his mouth like sultry, tangible whispers before pulling it back into the depths of his mouth. He misses the way he doesn’t blanch at the violence brought by his hands. He misses the sanctuary built and confined between their tangled bodies where sins dissolve into nothingness. He, most all, enjoys the man’s wit. It’s harsh, unforgiving and, yet, dangerously beautiful. The con man has teeth and he has no interest of ever submitting to another. Daud likes that in a man and Martin’s presence has been solely missed.

But he won’t tell the man such, after all, all of their actions are consistently in poor taste. They are men who are nearly devoid of tender places to wound and sometimes they let the other see that last tender spot. They burn and pierce at the other because they’re both men who have crawled from the dirt and spun a different a tale. There is solace in finding another wolf — like old, disturbed souls greeting the other and reminding the other of some humanity still be sought by coming together. Yet they’re selfish and self-possessed, playing a game of who can hurt who now that they have been apart from the other.

Maybe if they collect blood from the other will the absence be forgiven, even if it wasn’t caused by choice.

Teague doesn’t react, the bemused smile still sitting on his lips as he stares at the assassin. “I’m afraid this has been a wasted trip,” he issues out smoothly, turning his head downward and returning to his writing. A muscle in his jaw tenses before relaxing, but it’s a tell. The High Overseer is clenching his jaw and it’s enough to tell the assassin that his words did effect him. He won this round, but he doesn’t feel victorious in the least at beating the master strategist. Daud can only imagine the frothing rage bubbling inside of the Overseer over the fact he’s been bested. He knows that if he leaves it’ll only widen the injury. He can cut even deeper into this tender space left in the man.

“Please leave, Daud. You brought mud with you and it’s ruining the rug,” Teague adds after a few minutes of silence, his eyes still focused on his work and words lacking its normal sharp quality. Daud thinks he detects strain and it he feels guilty over his victory.

Daud doesn’t leave. He only moves closer, moving to the spot beside the extravagant chair and moving Teague’s face in his direction. His lips push against his and he expected to feel Teague’s shock. Perhaps, even, anger or irritation against his mouth but there is a quick curve of a smirk pressing into his lips. A little smirk that says he’s been caught in a honeytrap. 

“If I had shed a tear, would you have sucked my cock?” he murmurs innocently against his lips and Daud has half a mind to rip the damn man out of that chair and kick his teeth in. Instead he gives a sound in begrudging veneration and pushes his tongue into the bastard’s mouth. He hates the way that excites him and Teague seems to feel the electricity pouring out from between them, sudden and instant. It pulls a heady sound out of him and, by the Void, Daud has missed the sound. 

Teague’s mouth tastes of fruit and a sneaked-in cigarette, probably smoked on one of the rooftops in the backyard. His tongue is laced with success and that fine, malt liquor drawl that poisons and numbs. What they pass and mix between their mouths tastes of damnation. Their breaths catch and their pulse quickens and they fall just a little bit further from Grace. Martin pushes the chair back so he can turn his body towards Daud, hands reaching out to open his coat, fingers pulling at his tucked in shirt. 

How many times has he gorged himself on the hurricane of this vessel of wit to fall victim to its calamity? How many times has Teague run his tongue across the scars on his soul and end up bearing their ugly twin on his own? They’re two strong — similar, yet dichotomous — forces meeting the other. A _hunt or be hunted_ philosophy presses and breeds between their lips. They share a relationship that would call Pandyssia it’s home and they both carry its doom knowingly. 

Teague turns his head away when he needs air, Daud’s mouth sliding on his jaw. He kisses and bites his way downward, the hierophant tilting his head upward so his neck is exposed. Daud lets his teeth sit about the priest’s windpipe like a promise before dragging the blunt of his teeth down. He bites into Teague’s Adam’s apple instead and the younger male’s moan comes out as a pleased sigh. He suckles a bruise where his teeth mark lies, feeling Teague swallow against his mouth as fingers scratch and claw at his belly from underneath his shirt. The assassin moves his mouth up, brushing their lips together as his gloved hand firmly holds Teague’s head in place by the underside of his jaw. 

Blue eyes catch blue, a brief moment where pride in the other is exchanged. The grip on Teague’s jaw turns violent, fingers beginning to bruise flesh. 

“I don’t appreciate being tricked, priest,” the heretic growls out against his mouth. The Overseer hums lowly in appreciation at the thick, graveled sound that shakes and stirs his cock from within the confines of his trousers. “Strip,” Daud commands, pushing his jaw away roughly as he moves to the chairs in front of Teague’s desk. He slowly settles down on the chair, watching Martin finally rise to his feet. He obeys Daud’s command without much resistance for once.

Martin takes his time undressing himself. His clothes are settled neatly on the desk and Daud begins to spot scars he’s never seen before. There is a grotesque bruise on his ribs as if he’s been kicked and a scab right above his left hipbone. Daud’s nostrils flare in possessive fury, his features still and watching the plum color of the bruise overtake Teague’s cream-hued skin. 

“Who did that?” Daud asks levelly.

Teague pauses to turn his gaze upward at Daud before turning it back down, fingers undoing his trousers. “Piss poor luck and the combination of changing guards,” Teague replies. The bastard knows it bothers him but he seems uninterested in divulging anymore. 

“That didn’t answer my question.”

Teague shrugs his shoulders and in a flash of blue, the Void suddenly dripping from the confines of Daud’s hand, there are fingers tugging at Martin’s hair. The priest snarls and glares at Daud, baring his teeth in instant challenge. He won’t answer Daud and that only serves to irritate the assassin. He should have never been gone for so long and he tightens his grip on Teague’s hair, pushing him so he’s pinned against the bookcase behind the desk. The metal of his belt is digging brutally into Teague’s scabbed hipbone and it is threatening to rip the healing wound off. 

“Someone marked you,” Daud issues out his verdict into his ear, teeth grazing his earlobe, “Meaning, I’m going to have to remark you. Maybe…maybe I should just cut into that bruise of yours.”

Teague swears and makes a sound far from human, writhing against him. The scab is broken and there is fresh pain resonating on his hipbone now.

Daud’s free hand presses into the bruise, earning a sharp cry and hips rising upward. He presses and pushes into the bruise, and there is a sharp urgency beginning to trickle into the pretty noises leaving the High Overseer. He pushes and pushes and pushes but Teague won’t give. The grin of his defiance is open-mouthed and his cheeks are flushed. 

“Tell me where you want me to touch you,” Daud finally sighs into his mouth at Teague’s refusal on sharing with him information on the nature of his injuries. It makes Daud suspicious but that’s only playing into the bastard’s game. It’s what he wants and he wants to remind the Overseer that he is still holding part of the reins in this little dance they’re in. 

Teague opens his mouth, to tell him, but Daud shakes his head. He gloved fingers find Teague’s and he squeezes his hand in emphasis, “Tell me.” 

The Overseer is given room and Daud watches him lick his lips in thought, moving his own hands to comb through his disheveled locks. The High Overseer grooms himself, recomposing and stepping out of the last of his clothes. Daud gives a cursory glance to ensure there aren’t any other new marks and injuries. He misses the smile on Teague’s lips when he catches him doing so. The Overseer clears his throat and settles back in his armchair, sinking back into his status of control. 

He sits with power and a sultry form of confidence that speaks of unspeakable troubles. His legs are bare and spread with leisure and proud exposure, Daud watching fingers idly glide across the expanse of muscle and flesh. It’s slow. Light. Teague doesn’t grace him with eye contact, his pale blues are turned downward. Leather fingers drip into the inside of his left thigh, Daud watching pressure be applied and pushing at the softness of his inner thighs. _There_ , Teague informs him through his fingers. Bare fingers move up to the spot beneath his bellybutton, dragging at the skin underneath. _Here._ Daud stays put, watching the dark-haired priest trace the spots he craves to be touched with his blade in silence. 

A part of him wishes he asked for the priest to find his gloves and then touch the places he wishes for the assassin to greet. Ah, no, the worn leather of _his_ own gloves. To watch his gloves map out Teague’s body. For the priest to close his eyes and pretend his hands are his, touching and toying with himself. He’ll have to remember to suggest such later. 

Teague touches the bruise. 

_Here._

It should be worrisome how utterly pleased he is at that motion. It should be worrisome — a sign of weakness — to be possessed over a priest. Especially a priest who is more criminal than saint. But here Teague is with his spread out thighs and trusting Daud to not take this opportunity to kill him. 

“Daud…” Teague murmurs out impatiently and Daud sheds his coat off. He undoes his belt and rolls up his sleeves until they reach his elbows. The assassin crouches down and pulls a small blade out of his boot. It should be dangerous how easily they sink back into each other after a month of absence. There are thousands of red flags they are blatantly ignoring.

A gloved finger traces the spot beneath Teague’s navel, carefully curling around Teague’s cock and moving it to create distance between the blade and targeted flesh. “Hold still,” Daud informs and the blade sits against his skin. Cold. Barely cutting flesh. When it does bite, it is a slow and drawn out draw that causes a wet sound to push its way out of Teague. His fingers grip the armrest of the armchair until his knuckles are white, eyes watching blood dribble out. Daud lets go of Teague’s cock and it returns to partially resting against his lower abdomen. Teague hisses and squirms when his cock brushes against the cut, red becoming smeared. It’s a pain that takes him by surprise.

Daud lets the back of his hand press against Martin’s cock, pushing heated flesh against broken skin to earn another pretty sound. He watches precum dribble out and he purposely mixes it with the blood. Teague swears at the sight before his head tips back, mouth parted and trembling in the aftershocks of pain and pleasure. 

He nicks and cuts at the softness of his thighs as directed. But if he ever wants that sweet sound out of Teague, he’ll press into the cut on his lower abdomen. He’ll listen to him whisper and moan out his name as if it’s a prayer. If he presses the blade too hard, pushes his thumb too deep into a cut, lets the blunt of his nail catch on split flesh, he'll openly admit it's for his own amusement than for Teague's pleasure.

The knife is against the bruise. He can feel the cool steel against his flesh, and it suddenly slices into him. Teague gasps and goes tense, feeling hot blood sliding across his skin and the throbbing heat of pain. He expects he must be gutted, his eyes momentarily fixated elsewhere and imagining fantastical images of the flesh of his belly split open with his innards ready to push out. It makes him tremble, worry cloying until Daud’s mouth sucks at the cut. He gets a grasp of its size and depth. It’s only a scratch and the Overseer moans in relief, but adrenaline continues to surge and race amongst his body. Daud’s mouth is the sweetest of balms, but his tongue grazes and makes the wound sting. When Daud’s mouth draws back, blood beads out of the thin cut and looks like rubies burrowed into his flesh. The sweltering, juicy color of purple accompanies the deep red of his blood. 

Teague Martin is certain if Daud cuts deep into the bruised flesh that the very color of those heretic shrines will come pouring out. It only serves to excite him and he makes a soft sound in the back of his throat that he’s close. 

“Not yet,” Daud informs, a gloved finger pushing at the thin cut he left on his thigh. “You can’t come yet. We’re far from finished.”

**Author's Note:**

> _Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review!_


End file.
